


Ambush

by fengirl88



Series: Invasion [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Warning: Implied Incest, Warning: Implied Past Sexual Abuse, Warning: Traumatic Memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don't believe in buried memories.”  His own voice, furious, panicked, last night.</p><p>Doesn't matter what he believes, does it?  He doesn't have a choice.  He's stuck with this, stuck <i>in</i> this, and he can't get out of it.</p><p>Fourth in the series that begins with Invasion, Reconnaissance and Reveille: <strong> Warning: Implied Incest, Warning: Traumatic Memory (particularly in this part), Warning: Implied Past Sexual Abuse.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to blooms84, ginbitch and kalypso_v for beta and cheerleading; to machshefa for the encouraging comments on the previous three in the series; and to marysutherland for many useful discussions about where this is all heading.

Sherlock ends the call and looks at the appointment details he's just scribbled down. He thinks about texting John to say he's done it, but the headache is back again and it feels like too much effort right now.

Maybe John will ring at lunchtime. He does that sometimes.

He wants John's approval, needs it, _look, I've been good, I did what you said, can we be all right again now?_

There's a part of him that feels angry with John for insisting he had to do something about it, even for telling him, though he knows that's not fair. That John couldn't just have pretended it didn't happen.

He takes a couple of painkillers, notes the time on the kitchen slate. Which is pointless, isn't it? Because if he decides not to stick to the dosage he'll just wipe the slate clean. Write something new on it.

Lie to John about it. He'd have to do that as well.

It's not as if he's never done that before.

If it weren't for John he might never have known. It might never have happened –

Remembering, that is. The other thing would always have been there. If it's true.

He hadn't wanted to believe John. But he knows John doesn't lie. Wouldn't lie, especially about something like this.

This morning when he woke up, he didn't know where he was for a moment. Or who this other person was in bed with him.

He doesn't think that's ever happened before. But if his memory has been playing tricks on him, how would he know? What else might he have forgotten?

“I don't believe in buried memories.” His own voice, furious, panicked, last night.

Doesn't matter what he believes, does it? He doesn't have a choice. He's stuck with this, stuck _in_ this, and he can't get out of it.

It's hot and sticky in the flat. Too warm for June. Stifling indoors, but he doesn't feel like going out. He'd like a shower but he's already had one. And he's not going to start developing what John and that person he's got to see now would obviously seize on as _symptoms_.

Fighting off the impulse to shower again is tiring, though, and he lies down on the sofa, feeling sluggish, heavy-limbed. So heavy it's almost like something pinning him down, something pressing on him.

His face feels as if there's a sort of spider-web all over it, making his skin crawl and itch. Blurring his vision. He wants to put up a hand and brush away the webs from his eyes but he can't lift his hand because of the heaviness, the stickiness keeping him trapped.

He can hear the blood in his veins, the noise of it almost deafening. It's dirty and wrong and he wants to let it all out. Get a complete transfusion so there's none of it left.

He's never felt like that before ( _how would you know_ , his mind jeers), not even when his blood _was_ obviously contaminated, full of junk, full of drugs. He's been clean since shortly after John moved in. But he doesn't feel clean.

He doesn't feel as if he'll ever be clean again.

He wants John here, now, to make it better, wants to hear his voice, wants it so badly that he's ready to break their rule and ring John at the practice, insist on being put through, say it's an emergency. But he can't pick up the phone. Nothing about his body seems to belong to him any more. And there is nothing and no-one to put between him and this feeling that's overwhelming him.

He hears himself whimper, knows it's him but the noise seems to come from a long way off, from someone he used to be. It's as if the thread binding all his past selves together has been pulled tight, bunching them close like the gathers in a piece of fabric.

Not sure where that image comes from. Makes him think of Nanny stitching his costume for the play he was going to do for Mummy when she got out of hospital. He must have been – what? – six, maybe seven. Nanny said not to worry, Mummy would be fine, _just a little clear-out_ , but Sherlock must be a good boy and not expect her to pick him up for a hug, he was too big for that now and anyway Mummy mustn't lift anything for quite a long time.

Another voice, not Nanny's: _Mummy's awfully bossy, isn't she, it's more fun without her_.

He'd agreed, but felt guilty. Because it was Mummy's _job_ to be bossy.

The same voice again, teasing: _While the cat's away, the mice will play_.

 _I'm not a mouse!_

 _Yes, you are_ , the voice said, mock-threatening. _I can tell by your squeaking._

He'd tried to squirm away, giggling, from the kisses that tickled and scratched, the mouth blowing a raspberry against his stomach.

The voice echoes in his head, saying _It'll be our little secret. Silly old Mummy wouldn't understand_.

He tries to say something but he can't open his mouth.

The room goes dark.


End file.
